


The Kids Are(n't) Alright

by soldierpoetprince



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Chatting & Messaging, Child Neglect, F/F, How Do I Tag, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Underage Drinking, Internalized Homophobia, Just kids being kids, LGBTQ Themes, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, PLEASE heed chapter warnings yall, Pre-Game Personalities (New Dangan Ronpa V3), Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Somewhat, This is gonna get dark, Trans Female Character, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Virtual Reality, gratuitous use of emoticons, kind of, rated mature for themes, these kids need therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:34:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25154782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soldierpoetprince/pseuds/soldierpoetprince
Summary: Shuichi Saihara's parents don't care. Kaede Akamatsu doesn't remember caring. Kokichi Ouma just wants to be alone.Sixteen kids. One overarching destiny. Will they be able to overcome their differences, or will they be their downfall?(Pre-Game AU)
Relationships: Amami Rantaro & Tojo Kirumi, Chabashira Tenko & Shinguji Korekiyo, Chabashira Tenko/Yumeno Himiko, Gokuhara Gonta & Hoshi Ryoma, Harukawa Maki & Hoshi Ryoma, Harukawa Maki & Yonaga Angie, Hoshi Ryoma & Yonaga Angie, Iruma Miu & K1-B0, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi, Saihara Shuichi & Shirogane Tsumugi, Yonaga Angie & Yumeno Himiko
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	1. i place my head between my knees and think: “ do you ever have nights like these ? “

**Author's Note:**

> I've never really liked most of the fanon interpretations of the pre-game personalities. I'm aware that most of my characterizations aren't what have become wildly accepted, so please, I'd prefer if people didn't comment about how these aren't the pre-game characters they're used to. With that aside, I hope these can be just as interesting!
> 
> Content Warnings: Mentions of child neglect, child abuse, anxiety/paranoia, small mention of sleep paralysis, implied underage drinking/sex

Shuichi Saihara wakes up to an empty home.

He shouldn’t be surprised, and in a way, he isn’t. His parents told him—in between small bites of far too expensive steaks and sips of nauseatingly strong wine—that they’d be leaving again, off to another shoot on what was probably the other side of the world. He wasn’t paying much attention. He stopped caring long ago. They promised to call ( ~~_ they’d forget the second they lelt, like they always do _ ~~ ) and assured him they’d send money every week for him to keep himself fed. He didn’t mention that he has plenty of money already. They always give him far too much, but he’s not complaining. If he were to say anything about it, they’d probably go off on a spiel about how ungrateful he is, again. Or, maybe, they’d berate him on talking back, aghast that he thinks they don’t know how to budget money. ( ~~_ They don’t. _ ~~ ) Neither one was something he was in the mood for, so as always, he stayed silent.

Waking up in his room is always a weird feeling. Saihara doesn’t sleep in it unless his parents are home to avoid the ungrateful brat speech. He isn’t ungrateful for what they’ve done. It’s just hard to sleep when you’re quite literally surrounded by death.

The first thing he sees when he wakes up is the poster hung on the ceiling, placed right above his pillow. The Ultimate Thief’s execution from  _ Danganronpa: Joker’s Casino.  _ As much as he loved that season, he doesn’t enjoy waking up every day to the blue-purple face of a girl desperately clawing for her life. 

With a sigh, he pushes off his bedsheets—Monokuma themed, of course. His parents had insisted on decorating his room, probably as another half-hearted attempt to win his love. It shows how much they know about him, though, or at least how little effort they put into  _ getting _ to know him. His room is, from floor to ceiling, door to window, covered in different Danganronpa themed memorabilia. It’s suffocatingly nauseating, like his mother’s perfume, and he barely spares it a glance as he quickly escapes out into the hallway, unaware of how shallowly he’s breathing until he slumps against the outside of the door, hands clutching at his shirt.

Saihara loves Danganronpa for its dark, genuine look on humanity. He loves it for touching upon subjects nearly every other show had previously shied away from; for how it’s stayed on top of the charts for so long; for his personal connections with the characters and their struggles. He doesn’t love it for the brading. He doesn’t love how it makes millions off of selling pictures and detailed sculptures of people’s final moments. He hates the merchandise, the marketing strategies, the way Team Danganronpa sells off the items and belongings of the dead to the highest bidder. Danganronpa didn’t start off as a money-making scheme. It started off as a rebellion against the usual censorship of the media. It was meant to show that audiences didn’t want watered down bullshit. 

He’s far too afraid to tell that to his parents, however. So, like he tends to always do, he stays silent as they buy out every auction, showering him in endless, genuine presents—right from the show! He doesn’t know how they expect him to smile and nod when they put the baseball bat that took a girl’s life in his hands; how they expect him to be  _ marveled  _ at the fact that they actually managed to buy the leg of the Ultimate Cyborg; how they think he’ll love them for spending money he never asked for on the crushed remains of the Ultimate Flutist’s treasured instrument.

Saihara’s glad they left. Cruelly, he thinks about wanting them to leave, forever, and finally leave him alone. 

He shakes those thoughts away, pushing himself up with a sigh as he begins the long track through the mansion’s hallways. He’s hungry, after all.

* * *

Kaede Akamatsu is already awake by the time her sister comes barreling down the stairs. In a practiced movement, she raises her cup just in time to avoid spilling it all over herself as her sister launches herself into her arms, laughing as they both fall backwards onto the couch.

“Koemi,” she deadpans, reaching around the shorter girl to place her drink on the coffee table behind her, “what have I said about tackling me while I’m drinking?”

Koemi laughs, pulling back and shifting to sit beside her, brushing a strand of short blonde hair out of her face. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be such a spoil-sport! You got it out of the way before anything happened, right? No harm, no foul!”

Akamatsu rolls her eyes, holding back a disappointed sigh as her sister begins to search for the remote between the couch cushions. Her twin can be overwhelmingly energetic at times, but even so, Akamatsu can’t help the smile that crosses her face. It’s refreshing to have someone as optimistic as Koemi around. 

She doesn’t talk to many others outside of her sister, but still, she’s aware of what people say about them. Their classmates call them complete opposites—the hopeless optimist and the emotionless nihilist. She knows there are betting pools about whether they’re truly sisters, or even related, but she doesn’t care. Koemi doesn’t know about them, and that’s all that matters. Akamatsu knows that if her twin found out, she’d be devastated. She cares too much about what other people think of them. She’d worry and cry over why people would say such horrible things, why they’d spread such rumours about people they don’t even know. Koemi’s the type of person that sees the best in people, no matter what. Akamatsu can’t understand her.

Still, she’s not going to be the one to pop her bubble. As long as she’s around, she can protect Koemi from those things. As long as they focus their words on her—as long as she’s the one on their radar—she doesn’t care. All that matters, in the end, is that Koemi is happy. She knows that if her sister found out, she’d insist that Akamatsu deserves to be happy, too. It’s not that she’s unhappy. She doesn’t quite know what she is, really. She isn’t sad, or angry, or depressed, necessarily. She’s . . . numb.

She has been for a while. A mixture of desensitization from their world and the awareness that nothing truly matters. She doesn’t mind it, most of the time. Koemi has enough emotional energy for both of them. She’s contagious in the best way, and as long as she’s around, Akamatsu doesn’t really mind the numbness.

“Ah! Here it is!” Koemi lifts herself up with a smile, having to bend over the side of the couch to grab the remote. Akamatsu’s fairly certain it was the other girl’s own fault it had ended up there in the first place, but she holds her tongue, watching as Koemi pulls a large blanket over herself from behind her mug. After a second, Koemi drapes it over Akamatsu’s lap, too, pink eyes shining with far too much energy for so early in the morning. Akamatsu shoots her a thin-lipped smile back, leaning back onto the couch as Koemi starts to flip through channels aimlessly, probably searching for another cheesy romance show. 

Akamatsu doesn’t like romance shows, if she has to be honest. All they ever show is a sugar-coated, rose-colored outlook on life and romance. It’s why she prefers shows like Danganronpa for their more accurate, though gritty, look at relationships. Koemi can’t handle gore very well, though, so Akamatsu only ever watches it when Koemi is busy with other things. 

She may not believe in people anymore, but she believes in her sister.

* * *

Kokichi Ouma doesn’t really wake up, mostly because he doesn’t really sleep. It’s easier for him to work at night. It’s the only time his mom isn’t awake, watching and monitoring his every movement. That, and he prefers the night over the day, anyway. It’s quieter then. There’s no rush to get things done, no screaming wildlife, no one telling him what to do. Ouma prefers things that way. The darkness won’t scream, or push, or pull out a knife. The darkness can’t hurt him like she can.

He’s lucky today. He manages to time things just right, exiting the kitchen and slipping into his room with his coffee seconds before he hears his mom’s door open. His hands move to close his bedroom door behind him, until he remembers it’s not there anymore because his mom took it away last week. She said he was conspiring against her, scheming to take her down and take the house. He’s still surprised she didn’t take it away earlier. He knows, as soon as he manages to make her take her medication again, that things will go back to normal for a while. Tricking her into taking them is no use, so all he can do is wait. 

Luckily, today seems to be a good day. She doesn’t come barging into his room, asking what he was doing up before her, nor does she scream over the fact that he used the coffee machine while she was still asleep. Ouma doesn’t remember her taking her medication last night, but she seems a lot more lucid now. He curses himself for missing that under his breath, clenching his fists until blunt nails are digging into the palm of his hand. It shouldn’t be that big of a deal. But if he doesn’t keep track of her medication, who will? Hopefully, he’ll be able to check the bottle without her noticing. He doesn’t need her screaming about him poisoning her medication again.

He tries to keep his hands from shaking as she walks past his open door frame. She doesn’t even look at him as she passes, though, cradling a steaming mug between her bone-thin fingers, her face hollow and sunken. Ouma tries to make her eat more, but she’ll only listen to him so much. Sometimes, during especially bad nights, he’ll see her standing by the foot of his bed. He knows it’s not her, rationally, but that doesn’t change the fact that those images terrify him. During those nights, she’s no more than skin and bones, paper-white skin wrinkled and sagging off her body until only a skeleton remains. Her hollow, sunken eyes will stare back at him, then, forcing him to stare back until the sunlight creeps through his curtains and frightens the image away.

Ouma does his best to separate his nightmares from reality. It’s hard, though, when reality is nearly as frightening. 

He glances at the mirror on his nightstand, which he’d previously covered with a spare shirt. There are times he can’t stand looking at himself. He’s too pale, too skinny, clothes not fitting quite right as they hang off his limp frame. Other times, he needs his reflection, if only to remind him that he  _ isn’t  _ like her. He relies on those differences to assure him he’s not becoming her. ( ~~_ He tries not to think about how that’s the same paranoia she exhibits. It fails more often than not. _ ~~ ) His face is rounder, his eyes and hair purple, very much unlike her green ones. Well, at least, one of his eyes . . .

He shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think about that. Not today, not on a good day. Instead, he taps his fingers against the dark wood of his desk, twirling a pencil in his other hand. He’d already finished all his work during the night—it’s what it was  _ for _ , after all—so he can relax, for once. Maybe she’ll let him go outside to clear his thoughts. If not, maybe just down to the lobby, or out to the hallway. He doesn’t want to push his luck. He writes down a note in his journal for later, reminding himself to check the cabinet, glancing towards the doorway anxiously. It’s a good day. It won’t hurt to ask, right?

* * *

Kiibo Idabashi doesn’t know what time it is when they hear a knock on the garage door. They blink back to reality, setting their tools down on the table with a soft  _ clunk _ , slowly trying to snap themselves out of their previous state. How long had they been working? . . . What were they even working  _ on _ ? They look down at their hands, covered in oil and other miscellaneous liquids they’d rather not ask about, trying to piece together the machinery in front of them. It has an alarm clock attached, along with a set of wheels and pincher-like arms that aren’t actually wired to anything. What were they going for . . . ?

There’s another knock, albeit more quiet than the last one, and they remember why they were snapped out of their trance in the first place. They push themselves up from their workbench, knees nearly instantly buckling and sending them crashing over the table. Right, they hadn’t gotten up in hours. Judging from the black dots framing their vision, it’s probably been some time since they last ate, too. They try again, more slowly this time, steadying their balance against a spare shelf until they feel stable enough to make their way towards the garage entrance. 

They had a remote on them at the beginning of the night, they’re sure of that, but a quick pat-down of their jumpsuit tells them they’ve long since lost it. Filing the issue for later, they opt for the button beside the metal door, taking a few steps backwards as the door begins to automatically open itself. 

Briefly, they wonder if it could be the Professor, but they quickly shake away the thought. The Professor has keys to the garage, so there wouldn’t be a need to knock, much less wait for Kiibo to open it. ( ~~_ That, and Kiibo can’t remember the last time he’d bothered to check up on them. _ ~~ ) It could be one of his clients, probably having rung the doorbell to no results and turning to the second most-likely location for the man to be. Most of his regulars know that his workspace is in the basement, however, and typically resign themselves to calling when the doorbell doesn’t work. It could possibly be—

Ah.

“Good morning, Iruma-san,” they greet, nodding towards the girl and stepping aside to beckon her in. “A bit early for this, isn’t it?”

Kiibo doesn’t quite remember  _ how  _ they met Miu Iruma. A quiet, jumpy girl with tangled blonde hair and timid eyes, she’s not a person they’d typically find themselves interacting with, mostly because they don’t find themselves interacting with people at all. They don’t know how they formed the relationship they have now, either, nor if they should even call it a relationship. 

Iruma doesn’t talk much—or at all, really—making it more the wonder how they got to where they are. Kiibo doesn’t mind her silence, however. They’re not much of a people-person. The most they’ve heard out of her have been short, clipped sentences, along with affirmations of  _ yes _ and nervous squeaks. She reminds them more of the Professor’s lab rats, at times, with the way her fingers nervously comb through her hair and with how she jumps at the slightest sound. 

Said girl just nods at their greeting, looking slightly guilty as she stares nervously down at her crossed boots, glove-covered hands fidgeting endlessly in front of her. She’s wearing her usual oversized sweater, sleeves reaching past her fingertips in what Kiibo is sure is a lab-safety violation. She at least remembered her goggles this time, Kiibo notes, positioned crookedly between matted bangs. Good. They lost their spare ones sometime last week, and they’re sure the Professor wouldn’t like it if he found out they’d let someone get injured in their workspace. 

“Come in,” they try, gesturing behind them bluntly. Iruma squeaks, jumps, then nods hurriedly, skittering in and nearly tripping over herself (and multiple chunks of spare parts) to get to the spare workbench Kiibo had lended to her. There are more bandages on her than they remember from yesterday—notably a large adhesive on her right cheek and some gauze wrapped around her left knee, barely visible underneath her skirt. That must be why she’s arrived so early, though Kiibo still can’t understand why she goes to  _ them _ , of all people. They’re not necessarily kind, nor emotionally helpful or invested in her health. She’s shown to be able to care for herself well enough. 

Kiibo returns to their own workbench after closing the door behind her, pulling an energy drink out from the mini fridge to keep themselves running. They hadn’t realized how tired they were until they were forced to get up, but no matter. They were clearly on a roll before Iruma arrived, and they’re not going to let such a minor interruption stop them. They catch Iruma sending them an odd look out of the corner of their eye, but she jumps away the second they make eye contact, so they don’t try to interpret it much. Iruma’s actions, like most people’s, evades them entirely.

They down the drink in one, haphazardly tossing it in the direction of the trash before returning to their work. They’re certain they missed it, but that’s what they made their cleaning bots for. Despite not having a clue what they were working on, their hands expertly move back into rhythm, seemingly having a mind of their own as they continue to piece together a puzzle their mind is far too tired to figure out.

As their hands work, they let their thoughts wonder, as per usual. They don’t question what Iruma’s working on. She probably wouldn’t be able to give them an answer if they did. For all their time working together—if they can call it that—they admittedly know very little about Iruma’s work. She’s not into robotics like them, they don’t think, sticking more to practical inventions, though Kiibo doesn’t know what of. Not knowing doesn’t bother them. They don’t care to know, nor bother to. Knowing the why and how behind people’s actions or goals confuses them more often than not. It includes so much emotion, so much unpredictability, that they’ve stopped trying.

People don’t come easy to Kiibo, which is why they prefer robotics and codes so much. It’s cliche, they’re aware—an inventor who prefers machinery over humanity—but cliches form because there’s some underlying truth in them. It’s more sensible, anyways. They can’t control how interactions with people will go, as shown by Iruma’s earlier blunder at their greeting. If she were one of their robots, however, they could’ve been prepared for that. Lines of code preventing certain scenarios, warning itself about not acting like  _ this  _ if  _ that  _ is true, or present, or false. That doesn’t happen in people. It’s not that Kiibo wants to control others, necessarily. That’d be too much work. It’s more that they don’t know how to form interactions with unknown factors present, so they don’t. Iruma is an exception for a reason they don’t bother to understand. She doesn’t bother them, though, and is insanely smart despite her overly anxious state. In fact, she’s helped them quite a bit over the time they’ve spent together, as hesitant as her advice may be.

“Iruma-san, could you do me a favor and help with this wheel? I can’t figure out what’s wrong.”

And as usual, Iruma jumps, nods, and scrambles over, eyes darting around cautiously as she goes.

* * *

Rantaro Amami doesn’t remember throwing a party last night, but judging from his hangover and the passed-out bodies of people he barely recognizes strewn around the room, he clearly did  _ something _ . His first realization after dealing with the pounding pain in his head is:  _ Oh shit, there’s someone else in my bed.  _ Which, well, isn’t unusual, though he’s a bit disappointed he can’t remember what led up to it.

His second realization is:  _ Oh shit, there’s a  _ **_girl_ ** _ in my bed. Did I get so wasted I forgot my sexuality?  _ He feels himself panic, slightly, though it  _ would _ explain why he found the need to drink so heavily. That’s one experience he’d very much not like to remember. But then the girl turns over, showing the silver-gray bangs and smudged makeup of Kirumi Tojo. He gives himself a second to breathe out a sigh of relief before reaching over and grabbing a pillow with one hand, using the other to gently shake the girl’s shoulder.

“Hey, Tojo-san. Wake up,” he prods gently, shaking her a bit harder, like his younger sisters tend to do with him. He’s lucky they’re off on another cruise with his father. The man probably wouldn’t care about the party, but the girls would definitely dampen the mood. “Tojo-san. C’mon.”

Blearily, the girl blinks awake, clumped makeup sticking to her eyelashes as she wipes at her eyes. Slowly, she sits up, looking around seemingly as dazed as he is. The second Amami’s sure she’s awake enough to take in her surroundings, he brings down the pillow as hard as he can, hitting her square in the face and pushing her back down onto his mattress. 

“Get out of my fucking bed,” he deadpans, dodging easily as she tosses the pillow back towards him. It goes flying, hitting some random person on the floor who Amami definitely doesn’t know the name of. He doesn’t bother to check on them, instead keeping a watchful gaze on the girl in his bed. Despite everything, her short gray hair still looks perfect, framing her sharp angles delicately. Amami feels nothing at the realization that she's only in her undergarments, briefly glancing around the room in search of her clothes. There are things he’d rather not wake up to. 

He uses this time to analyze the collateral from the night before. Asides from him and Tojo, there’s only one other person in the loft, passed out to his right and in front of his vanity. On the ground floor, there are three others—one half-slumped over the round sofa, half-covered in throw pillows; one peeking out from behind the curtains, the rest of their body laid out on his balcony; and one’s bare feet sticking out of his closet. They better not have touched his clothes. From what he can see from his high point, the damage doesn’t look too bad. The chandelier’s shattered again, and one of the curtains around the couch seems to be missing, but otherwise, his bedroom looks fairly normal. The rest of the mansion, probably not so much, but that’s not his problem.

“You’re the one that  _ insisted  _ I take it last night,” Tojo sneers back, huffing as she pushes her bangs away from her eye. She must’ve used at least a bottle of hair gel, Amami guesses, seeing that her bangs bounce back to their original position not even a second later. Tojo grabs onto his covers, wrapping them around her torso in a makeshift robe as she gets up, barely bothering to spare him a glance. “You were  _ so  _ whiny.  _ Oh, Tojo-san, I need something to cuddle with. I can’t possibly sleep without my stuffed animals _ ,” she mocks, doing her best impression of him as she begins to search for her garments. Amami sneers, deciding then and there to not tell her her dress is currently tangled up in the duvet. With a huff, he turns away from her, swinging his feet over the side of the bed wearily.

“If you’re going to try to embarrass me with fake stories, at least put some  _ effort  _ into it.” Grimacing as his foot touches the hand of the person still passed-out on his floor, he reaches over to his nightstand, grabbing a glass of water his drunk self must’ve left for him before passing out. At least  _ someone  _ in this household cares for him. Ignoring whatever Tojo’s doing behind him, he raises the glass to his lips and—

Nope, that’s definitely straight-up vodka. Instantly, he spits it out, coughing as he tosses the glass aside. It shatters as it hits the wall, sending shards of glass and excess liquid clattering to the white rug below. It’s not his job to clean it up, though, so as long as the cleaning staff doesn’t fuck it up, he doesn’t care. It’s not important to him, anyways, so if they  _ do  _ fuck it up, he can just make his father buy another one.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. He can hear Tojo stifling a laugh behind him, and he doesn’t have to turn around as he says, “Laughing at someone’s misfortune? You’d think the Prime Minister’s daughter would have some  _ compassion. _ ”

“And you’d think the son of a respected CEO wouldn’t be such a man-whore,” Tojo retorts without hesitation. Amami can  _ hear  _ the smile in her voice, and coupled with his current hangover, he’s pretty sure that this is what Hell feels like.

“Way to prove my point,” he mutters, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes in an attempt to ease the pain. The lights aren’t even  _ on  _ and it’s still too bright. “You out of all people should know those rumours are just exaggerations. You’re the one that fucking spreads them.”

“Someone has to knock that ego of yours down a peg, Amami-san,” Tojo responds bitingly. From the ruffling behind him, he can only assume she’s found her dress, which is a shame. Having to watch her walk all the way down to the garages in nothing but his covers would’ve been amusing, and would definitely be enough payback from the last time she embarrassed him publicly. Shaking his head, he pushes himself up, stretching his arms over his head and hearing at least ten different bones in his back pop at the motion. Scratching the back of his head, he turns around to catch Tojo glaring at him as she zips up the back of her dress, which definitely has a wine stain on it from the night prior.

“Get the fuck out of my room, Tojo-san.”

“Gladly.”

* * *

Korekiyo Shinguji wakes up to someone gently shaking him awake, whispering to him in a low tone. 

“Kiyo. Kiyochan, wake up. We gotta get you home before Maiyadera notices.”

His sister’s name jolts him into full consciousness, his body snapping to a sitting position so suddenly that the person waking him barely manages to jump back in time, leaving them both wide-eyed in shock for a second until he regains his surroundings.

Tenko Chabashira is kneeling by his side, wearing pink, heart-patterned pajamas, a sleeping mask haphazardly pushed to her forehead, looking at him with worry as he forces his body to take deeper breaths. It must be early, he thinks, seeing that the girl’s hair is still knotted and frizzy from sleep, meaning she hasn’t had time to get through her morning routine yet. One look at the alarm clock besides him proves so, marking one hour and a half before his sister wakes up to check on him. He breathes out a sigh of relief, nodding to Chabashira to show that he’s regained his senses.

The girl grins, if not bittersweetly, sliding off the side of the bed so that Shinguji can get up himself, fists planted confidently on her hips in more enthusiasm than this time of day should warrant. Shinguji can’t help but laugh, covering his mouth with his hand and trying to pass it off as a cough at Chabashira’s pout. It’s gone as soon as it appears, though, as she bounces on the balls of her feet, regaining her confident smile.

“C’mon, we gotta get you re-bandaged up! We really gotta get you some higher-quality stuff." Chabashira mutters that last part to herself, almost absentmindedly, kneeling down to search under her bed. Shinguji pushes himself up onto a sitting position meanwhile, kicking aside her starry bedsheets and automatically rolling up his sleeves. He tries not to think about it, looking at his bandage-wrapped arms, focusing instead on the way Chabashira is humming under her breath as she pulls herself back onto her heels, holding a small cardboard box in her hands. Chabashira is everything his sister is not--kind, open-minded, energetic, warm—and he's eternally grateful for everything she's done. 

He takes a deep breath as she pulls out a roll of gauze, mentally preparing herself as she lays everything out besides them. She's pulled herself back up onto her bed now, sitting beside him cross-legged, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth as she always does when she's concentrated. Shinguji flinches as the smell of disinfectant hits his nose, but wills himself to stay quiet, nodding to assure Chabashira at her worried expression.

"Just . . . let's get this over with," he says, hoping he doesn't sound as bad as he feels. Chabashira nods in return, and with practiced motion, reaches out and starts to unravel his bandages. He closes his eyes, too afraid to look. Shinguji tries not to flinch as he feels the cool air of the room hit his flesh, and then tries again once he feels Chabashira's soft hands against his skin, and then again when her soft touches are tailed by cotton balls and disinfectant. He fails all three times, wincing at every instance. Chabashira stands by it through it all, her hums and soft touches keeping him grounded as she cleans his wounds. 

Even with his eyes closed, he can still see what will most definitely become nasty scars. They'll fit in perfectly with all his other ones; all the cigarette burns, all the knife cuts, all the punches, all the scratch marks. A star map of mistakes, there on his arms for only Chabashira's eyes to see. He used to worry that Maiyadera would lash out about him using any form of first-aid on himself, but quickly learned she doesn't care about what he does, as long as it doesn't get in her way. Sometimes, he thinks she’s relieved that he covers them, because then no one but him and Chabashira know. But, he thinks bitterly, she got away with it  _ before _ , so covering them does nothing for her innocence. She can weave her way around the law with or without them.

“There we go! All done!” Chabashira snaps him out of his thoughts as she pats the back of his hand warmly, prompting him to open his eyes and look down. Perfect, as always. He doesn’t know if Chabashira knew first-aid before they met, or if she learned just for him, but he’s afraid to ask. He doesn’t want to think about being a burden to her in any way, even if she’s vehemently stated that caring for him is in no way burdensome. “Ah! Sorry, I almost forgot!”

Chabashira reaches over him, torso leaning over his lap as she reaches over to her nightstand, grabbing a bunch of black fabric before straightening herself back up, huffing under her breath as she does so. “Your mask!” 

Shinguji had nearly forgotten he’d gone to bed without it—he’s gotten so used to Chabashira’s presence, he barely even thinks about it anymore. After the shock passes, he nods and thanks her softly, taking the cover from her hands with what must be a bittersweet smile. As much as he’d like to be able to go without it, he only trusts one person to see him without it.

And that person is the enthusiastic girl now jumping up besides him, monologuing excitedly as she prances around her room, ready and excited to face the day. Mask already on—an action he doesn’t realize he’s automatically done until he feels the edges of the fabric scrunching up underneath his eyes—he gets up with her, wishing he could stay here with her forever. But Maiyadera’s waiting, unaware, and he’s far too afraid of what she’d do if she found out to test it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to fit all the characters introduction in one chapter, but I got a bit carried away, whoops. If there's anything I forgot to tag, or any warnings anyone thinks I should add, please do comment! Hopefully, I should be able to get the next chapter up in the upcoming week!
> 
> Title: Nights Like These by Pigeon Pit


	2. and we'll live life in a different light / steadfast through the darkest night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introductions II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warnings: transphobia, homophobia, mentions of child neglect, slight suicidal thoughts/ideations, implied underage drinking

Kaito Momota isn’t surprised to come downstairs and stumble upon his grandfather going on another rant about ‘ _ those goddamned transgenders, _ ’, shaking his fist at the television as he angrily eats his breakfast. Momota’s ignored as he walks into the kitchen, greeting his grandmother with a polite nod as he takes a seat at the table and begins scrolling half-heartedly through his phone. He nods again as she sets a tray down in front of him, quickly hurrying to her husband’s side as soon as Momota acknowledges the food.

He’s only half-paying attention to what the older man is saying, far too caught up in trying to beat his own high score. From what he can catch, though, it sounds to be his usual speech. Momota’s heard it plenty of times before, so it’s not like he needs to hear it again. It’s the same thing every time, anyways.

Momota doesn’t really care as much as his grandfather does. Sure, he finds it fucking weird— _ seriously, why would a guy want to be a girl? _ —but he doesn’t care about other people’s lives. As long as they don’t shove it in his face, or try to loop  _ him  _ into their weirdness, he doesn’t care. That goes for most things, now that he thinks about it. He likes it best when people stick to their own lanes, as he does with his. The lanes are there for a  _ reason _ , after all. Breaking free of them will inevitably lead to a car wreck, and he’d much rather not get himself involved in those things. He’s content to live as a bystander, watching people ruin their own lives because they ignored all the warnings. It’s not his fault that they didn’t listen, so he can’t see why it should interest him. 

He’s seen far too much drama caused by people sticking their noses into places they didn’t belong. As much as it entertains him to watch those things unfold, he’d rather not be on the receiving end of such scenarios. His grandfather would probably say that it’s the coward’s route, but Momota’s  _ not  _ a coward. He’s smart. There’s a fine line between bravery and stupidity, and it’s a line he’s made damn sure he’s not crossing any time soon. Or ever, as long as he can help it. It's why he prefers keeping to himself more often than not. People think you need to be overly popular or social to become team captain of the baseball team; Momota knows for a fact that that has nothing to do with it. It comes down to talent, motivation, and practice, of which he has plenty of. Charisma's a part of it, sure, but charisma doesn't necessarily mean talkative. It means you know what to say and when, and how to sway people to your side. 

Outside of practice, Momota doesn't interact with his team more than he needs to. Sure, he attends the occasional team outing, but that's just to keep morale up. Otherwise, he avoids too much conversation as much as he can. Preferably, he'd like to not talk to anyone, but he's aware that the world simply couldn't function in such a manner. No matter. He only has a few more years with these people, and then he can wave goodbye to this hell-hole and leave them behind forever. Not soon enough, in his opinion. It's not like he has a choice in the matter.

He sighs as he hears his grandfather call his name, putting aside his phone and pushing himself away from the table. Here he goes again . . .

* * *

Maki Harukawa has already been awake for three hours when Ryouma Hoshi sleepily makes his way into the orphanage's kitchen, rubbing tiredly at his eyes as he hoists himself up onto a barstool, resting his head in his arms tiredly. She greets him with a nod, closing the fridge door behind her as she hands one of the younger kids a juice box, patting their head warmly as they squeak out a thanks and run off to play. Leaning against the frigid door, she watches with amusement as Yuuna—a chubby russian blue cat Hoshi had taken up as his therapy animal—jumps up to the countertop beside him, headbutting his arms with her head insistently until he groans, lifts his head, and raises a hand to pet her. She meows in return, nearly smiling, absolutely preening under his touch as her tail sways back and forth happily. After a beat, she meows again, headbutting his hand before looking back at Harukawa, then back at her owner.

"You haven't eaten yet, have you?" Harukawa asks, huffing softly as Hoshi hesitantly shakes his head, refusing to meet her gaze and instead focusing solely on Yuuna. She shakes her head, turning around and reopening the fridge, pulling out the meal she'd prepared earlier for this very instance and sliding it into the microwave. "Did the kids wake you?"

Hoshi shakes his head, readjusting his black beanie—a gift one of the younger kids got for him, with two small cat ears sticking out the top and white whiskers on its front brim—and gesturing to Yuuna. "No, she did. Kept incessantly pawing at my face until I got up." Hoshi's voice is soft, as always, barely audible over the perpetual sound of children running and playing in the background. She's gotten used to it, however, easily tuning out the chaotic chatter to instead fully focus on her friend.

Harukawa can't help but laugh right as the microwave dings, sliding the plate back to Hoshi and jumping over the counter to take the seat beside him. He gives her a thankful nod, slowly beginning to take in his meal. Yuuna purrs contently, weaving her way around his body to make her way to Harukawa's side, instantly starting to headbutt her arm, which she'd left resting on the counter for support. Oh, right. Standing up again, she makes her way over to a nearby cabinet and pulls it open, grabbing a can of cat food and matching bowl before returning to her seat. She places it on the counter—Yuuna, in all her spoiled glory,  _ refuses  _ to eat on the floor—dumping out the can's components into the bowl and pushing it towards the feline, who meows once before digging in much like her owner.

It's been five years since she and Hoshi got acquainted here at the orphanage, yet it feels so much longer. Hoshi's one of the only kids her age, with one or two others, and she relies on him as much as he does her. Having him around is grounding, in a way. The workers have always been . . . nonexistent, so it falls to them to take care of the kids more often than not. Hoshi's not the best with them due to his anxiety, but he's always there for her when things calm down, giving her time to breathe and relax, along with petting Yuuna. She understands why he picked her as a therapy cat. She's convinced the cat is smarter than most adults she knows.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Yumeno-chan asked if we wanted to go to the park and search around for yokai with her later today. I told her that I doubt we'll find anything, but I'll be going just to make sure she doesn't get herself injured again. Do you want to come?"

Hoshi looks up at her curiously, pausing. Yuuna jumps to his side, rubbing up against his cheek comfortingly and causing him to giggle softly. She doesn't have to tell him what it will entail—going outside, being surrounded by other people, Yumeno's (and probably Angie's) rampant energy—so she doesn't, letting him think out his pros and cons before making his decision. She won't push him to do anything he doesn't want to, and if he asked (which she knows he wouldn't, he's far too afraid to), she would call in a rain check and stay with him in a heartbeat.

After a minute or so, he nods, setting aside his chopsticks and raising a hand to pat Yuuna's flank. "As long as Yumeno-san doesn't set a bush on fire again."

Harukawa smiles, trying not to laugh as she reaches out to ruffle his hair on instinct, ruffling his beanie instead and causing him to let out an exasperated huff. "You know I can't promise that."

* * *

Angie Yonaga wakes up in a temple. She doesn't remember falling asleep there, but then, she doesn't remember much of last night. They probably took her in, half-awake and half-alive as she was, and decided to take pity on her. She tries not to grimace at the thought, pulling her yellow cardigan back up around her shoulders as she looks around. It must be one of the worker's rooms, or a spare one, with nothing but a bed, nightstand, and empty bookshelf decorating the space. There are holy symbols, as well, which is what clues her in to her location, scattered all over like prized trophies. Her bag's on the ground in front of the nightstand, and a quick look through it shows her they hadn't taken anything. She lets out a small sigh of relief, counting through her pencils and brushes once again just in case. Everything's still there. They didn't take anything.

She makes her way out of there as quickly as she can. She's spent enough nights in places like these to know the exact twists and turns she needs to take to get out without stumbling into anyone else. While she  _ is  _ grateful to have had shelter for the night, she's never been able to feel comfortable around religious places or people. It's probably leftover trauma from her parents, but it's far too early for her to think about that, so she pushes the thought aside and continues on her way. It takes her less than two minutes to find her way out, weaving back into the crowd seamlessly, like she's done many times before. 

After she's sure no one from the temple's coming after her, Angie lets her shoulders relax, letting out a small sigh of relief as she moves to pull out her phone. It's still early, which gives her more than enough time to make her way down to the park and meet with Yumeno. She sends the other girl a quick text, affirming that she'll be making it to the meeting, before steeling herself and starting to make her way there.

She takes the time to go over her usual routine as she walks, keeping her head down and shoulders hunched to avoid confrontation. She's fully aware of how she looks, messy and crumpled as she is, but she's gotten far too used to people's stares to care anymore. Besides, she's gotten much better in keeping up her appearance. Her fingers are practiced as they twirl her silver hair up into two space buns, something Harukawa had taught her nearly a year ago, sinking back into the memory of the other girl's soft touches against her scalp as she led her through the steps. Angie knows she's severely touch deprived, and her affection towards both Harukawa and Yumeno is most likely because of that fact, but she feels like, after all she's gone through, she deserves a little selfishness.

It's as she's passing an electronic store when she first sees the ad—flashy and eye-catching—proudly announcing Team Danganronpa's first dive into the virtual reality world. She pauses for a slight second to acknowledge it. Danganronpa has never been something she's been overly interested in for many reasons, partially for the fact that she's never had a stable enough access to a television or wifi to truly have a connection to the series. Another is more of her personal qualms with the franchise. 

They capitalize off of people's pain and suffering, except it's  _ never  _ actually accurate. So many of their characters have 'tragic backstories', when in reality, they're probably some rich millionaire who's never worked a day in their life and only signed up in hopes of more riches or postmortem fame. She watches as the ad proudly presents their new cast, filled with a bunch of characters which will surely be forgotten by the new season's start. Sign ups for that have started, and as many qualms she may have with the franchise, the cash reward for the winners . . . it makes her pause. It has many times in the past, admittedly. The only reason she hasn't is because she's certain she wouldn't win. That wouldn't be the worst outcome. Have her fifteen minutes of fame, living in a well-kept, comfortable environment with no need to worry about when ( or  _ if _ ) she'll have her next meal. Not having to return to this world would only be another bonus. But then she remembers that, by doing so, she'll be leaving all her friends behind, and she pushes the thought aside.

Now, with their digital, no-death methods, however . . . 

Well, Angie would be lying if she said she isn't slightly tempted.

* * *

**Angie 💛 :** I'll be there in a bit!!

**Yumeno 🖤 :** yaaaaaa!! o(≧∇≦o) i'm waiting at the usual spot! ( •⌄• ू )✧

**Maki ❤️ :** Ryouma and I just left; we'll be there in 10

**Yumeno 🖤 :** is yuuna-chan coming too?? (=^･ω･^=)

**Hoshi 💙 :** Yeah, she's with us right now

**Hoshi 💙 :** **_[Photo attached]_ **

**Yumeno 🖤 :** awwwww!! (∩˃o˂∩)♡ i still can't believe she can just ride on your shoulders like that!!

**Hoshi 💙 :** I think she likes to be tall

**Gonta 💚 :** Gonta's sorry, but Gonta can't make it today! Gonta's working on a program currently. Apologies, Yumeno-chan

**Yumeno 🖤 :** don't worry gonta!! that's alright (๑>ᴗ<๑)

**Maki ❤️ :** I'll keep you updated in case anything happens Gonta, don't worry

**Gonta 💚 :** Thank you Harukawa-chan! 

**Maki ❤️ :** No problems

**Angie 💛 :** Um, Yumeno-chan? Where are you? I'm at the meet-up spot

**Yumeno 🖤 :** oh sorry sorry i'll be right there!! i thought i saw something so i ran off to investigate it (//∇//)

**Gonta 💚 :** Was it anything?

**Yumeno 🖤 :** no . . . (//x//) i think it must've been a stray cat ( ^..^)

**Hoshi 💙 :** Did you get a pic???

**Yumeno 🖤 :** sorry hoshi-kun, it got away from me (。･^･｡) we can look for it when you get here though!!

**Maki ❤️ :** I have never seen Ryouma walk so quickly in my life

**Maki ❤️ :** We'll be there in 5 now

**Angie 💛 :** I thought we came to look for yokai?

**Yumeno 🖤 :** we can do both!! （。＞ω＜）。

**Gonta 💚 :** Does Yuuna-chan get jealous around other cats, Hoshi-kun?

**Hoshi 💙 :** Only a bit

**Maki ❤️ :** As long as we pamper her afterwards, she doesn't mind

**Angie 💛 :** Awww, of course we will!

**Yumeno 🖤 :** of course!!!! we love yuuna-chan (⋈◍＞◡＜◍)。✧♡

**Maki ❤️ :** We've arrived. Did you two go off looking for the cat again?

**Angie 💛 :**

**Yumeno 🖤 :**

**Maki ❤️ :** I'll take that as a yes

* * *

Tsumugi Shirogane is bolting down the well-kept streets of her neighbourhood merely minutes after waking up. No one bats an eye at her behaviour, partially because she's woken up early enough that most people are still asleep in their beds. The only ones that so much as spare a glance her way are the ones sprawled out on the lawn of one of the houses a few residences away from her, but in their hungover, barely-conscious states, they barely register her presence. The ones that do are either far too out of it to care or used to seeing much weirder shit, which Shirogane is more than glad about. She recognizes some of them from her school, and she is  _ not  _ in the mood to stay and make chit-chat. She has important things to get to.

In all honesty, she didn't expect to get the job. She's still a high schooler—a  _ child _ , basically—and despite working on multiple writing jobs in the past, including her school newspaper, getting in was still a long shot. But here she is, running down the dew-covered streets and lawns of her neighbourhood, acceptance letter clutched tightly in her hands. She'd only read the first few sentences before leaving her yard, which was just enough for her to understand that she  _ did it _ . She got the spot. She was on the  _ team _ .

That was when she bolted into a sprint, still too young to drive herself and not wishing to wake her parents just to drive down a few streets, heart beating along with the rhythm of her footsteps against the pavement. She pinched herself multiple times when she first read it— _ she needed to make sure it was real _ —but now, with her heart nearly beating out of her chest and the sun's rays crashing down upon her, she  _ knows  _ she's not dreaming, and the thought only excites her more. She nearly runs past her destination in her giddiness ( _ she's always been a bit too lost in the clouds _ ), skidding to a halt just in time. Shirogane runs down the concrete pathway like she's done hundreds of thousands of times before, but it feels  _ different  _ now,  _ newer _ , and it brings her a sense of urgency, almost as if she doesn't get there in time, it'll slip out of her hands like wet sand. 

She's positively buzzing with electricity, the air around her feeling much like that of one minutes before a thunderstorm, and she can barely contain her energy as she reaches up to ring the doorbell, rocking back onto the balls of her feet as she waits. She knows he's home, and knows he's alone, so they won't have to deal with the presence of his parents. They can  _ celebrate _ . It probably doesn't take much longer than a minute or two for the door to open, but it feels like so much  _ longer _ , like the world is still trying to catch up to her. After an eternity, though, the front doors are carefully pulled open, revealing the tired face of Shuichi Saihara, gray-blue hair ruffled and messy, as if he'd just woken up due to Shirogane's ringing. His eyes sober up once he sees that it's her standing there, going from confusion, to happiness, to confusion once more. Shirogane doesn't wait for him to process her presence before she's jumping into his arms, burying her head on his shoulder as she hugs him tightly ( _ maybe even a bit too much, considering his overly-skinny frame _ ). 

After a beat, he wraps his arms around her and reciprocates the gesture, though Shirogane can still feel the confusion radiating off of the boy. She pulls back then, glasses slightly askew and grin wider than it's ever been as she holds up the letter in her hand to eye-level, proudly showing off the black-and-white bear logo of Team Danganronpa. Saihara's eyes widen instantly, gears turning in his head as Shirogane practically vibrates in place, watching as he connects the pieces. Finally, he tears his eyes away from the paper and looks back up at her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

"Did you—"

"Yeah!"

Saihara laughs suddenly and loudly, and Shirogane finally allows herself to truly let her excitement overwhelm her, unable to hold back the squeal that escapes her as Saihara pulls her into another hug, this time being the one to bury his head into the crook of her neck, still laughing as she drops the letter and lets herself bask in the moment. She did it. She actually  _ did it _ .

Tsumugi Shirogane was going to work with Team Danganronpa in their next season, and she could not be more excited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this took longer than expected. Hopefully I'll be able to churn out future chapters faster, since I don't plan on including every POV each time! If you can, please leave a comment or kudos! It really pushes me to write faster! 
> 
> Chapter Title: We're Not Alone by Echosmith


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